


To thee the ephemeral yields

by fullmoonhermit



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, mothers and fathers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmoonhermit/pseuds/fullmoonhermit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All he needs right now is you, Kyouya. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To thee the ephemeral yields

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before substantial events in the manga regarding Tamaki's relationship with his mother and Haruhi. 
> 
> I wrote this piece in one short sitting in 2007. I didn't know it then, but my father was in the process of dying and would pass away exactly a week after I completed it. Death and birth are things I write about all the time, so I'm not going to place too much significance on the timing. However, it was oddly uplifting to read this and realize I preemptively wrote myself some of the comfort and catharsis I would need after dad's passing. I suppose I'll always value it for that reason, even if it is a bit pretentious.

When Kyouya first met Tamaki’s mother, he was struck by how incredibly small she was; almost childlike, bones as brittle and delicate as a bird’s. He found it hard to imagine this woman picking up a young Tamaki and swinging him around in ecstatic dance, pushing him into the air on a swing set, or caressing his hair as he sat in her lap. So many of the memories Tamaki had related to him seemed almost impossible. Surely this delicate woman would have snapped and broken under even a child’s weight.

But, as Tamaki had said when they arrived, this woman wasn’t his mother at all. She seemed empty like the dry shell of a cicada clinging to a tree. 

She didn’t look like Tamaki, though he supposed this was strange considering they shared the same physical features. She had his hair, his complexion, even his pianist hands. But she lacked the ceaseless joy her son exuded even as he slept, the hopeful exuberance that made him seem young no matter how old they all got. He did detect in the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth a familiar kindness, though; a gentle acceptance that often lit Tamaki’s features when Kyouya tried to pretend he didn’t mind taking orders from his brothers. 

Still, this woman, the person who had brought Tamaki Souh into the world, lacked so much of the lightness her son had. 

He supposed this wasn’t at all unusual, considering the fact that she was a corpse. 

Tch.

“Kyouya?”

He was startled out of his thoughts by his wife’s voice. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“How is he?” 

He looked over at where Tamaki was talking quietly with an aunt he probably hadn’t seen in twenty years. All around the room his mother’s relatives examined him with wary glances and a few outright glares. Tamaki pretended not to notice. 

“Alright, I suppose. You know him, always determined to be optimistic.”

Haruhi nodded and stepped beside Kyouya to get a better view of his face. He wore contacts now, at her insistence, and she could look right through him with the smallest glance. Even after all these years it unnerved him. 

“And what about you?”

“I'm fine.”

He was grateful when she said nothing, only slipped her hand into his and walked him away from Tamaki’s mother. They sat on a chaise next to Mori, who was asleep, head leaning against the wall. 

“All he needs right now is you, Kyouya. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

Why had he married such a damn perceptive woman? Every insecurity and uncertainty and weakness was exposed to her. He felt helpless in the face of her knowing smile and the pressure of surrounding emotion, yet she was as unruffled as ever. 

“I’m going to go check on him.”

She smoothed her pants down, she would never be a skirt woman, and left him. It was funny, somewhere between graduation and their wedding, Tamaki had sort of become their adopted child. They took turns taking care of him and never begrudged an empty (or overly full) bed for a night if Tamaki needed them. Perhaps it was lingering guilt at having betrayed his feelings for their own, or maybe it was just an instinctual desire to protect the man who had brought them all together. 

“Congratulations.”

Kyouya was startled out of his thoughts for the second time that day as Mori, who was apparently awake, spoke. 

“Sorry?”

“Haruhi told me. Congratulations."

Mori looked at him, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Thank you.”

Kyouya looked away, focusing his gaze on Tamaki’s mother and then at Haruhi, who was hugging the blond fiercely.

“You’ll make a good father.”

Blinking, Kyouya turned back to Mori. He'd be an adequate father for an intelligent, hard-working child. But as to whether he would raise a happy one? Kyouya had his doubts.

"Perhaps."

Mori merely grunted with a half-smile and leaned back into his meditations. Kyouya waited for a moment, thinking about his father and Tamaki’s mother and Haruhi’s barely-curving stomach. Then, with a shaky sigh, he got up and made his way over to his grieving best friend.


End file.
